


The Body Burned Away

by mytimehaspassed



Category: Dexter (TV)
Genre: M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-10
Updated: 2010-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-22 06:08:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mytimehaspassed/pseuds/mytimehaspassed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not like they meet at a serial killer convention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Body Burned Away

**THE BODY BURNED AWAY**  
DEXTER  
Dexter/Rudy  
 **WARNINGS** : pre-series AU; serial killing

  
It's not like they meet at a serial killer convention. Rudy notices the scratches on Dexter's arms, the long sleeved shirt that he pulls down to cover his bloody hands, and just knows, just fucking knows, swallowing down his beer in three gulps and smirking silently. And Dexter thinks he can see it in Rudy's eyes, that soft veneer of who gives a fuck, the way he's always in control of everything, the way he's just let go of it, just let it ride. The police closing in on both of them, and Dexter thinks it's about time to just give it up, to just say “fuck you” to this life, to the way he's always looking over his shoulder, but Rudy, well. Rudy has a better idea.

“It'd be easier with a partner,” he says, smiling, laying a hand light on top of Dexter's, smoothing out wrinkles and worry lines and dried blood. “It'd be easier to have someone looking out for you, working with you.” His mouth so close, just inches away, the dark smoky haze of the bar, and Dexter's drawing in his breath tight, drawing in to try to hold the steady beating of his heart, try to calm his shattered nerves, the alcohol that courses through his veins.

And Rudy says, “It’d be easier to have someone who’d kill with you.”

And it's just so funny, because Dexter's always felt like he's been missing something in his life. Ever since he got out of foster care, all those homes with nice, perfect people and nice, perfect lawns, school books, white picket fences, puppies. Ever since he started dreaming about blood and screaming and actually turned it in to a not so guilty pleasure, well, he’s always felt like there’s something out there that he just can’t quite reach, no matter how hard he tries.

And Rudy just feels so right, so Dexter says, “Okay.”

They kill differently. Rudy doesn’t like the sight of blood, drains his victims on a chair that he designed himself, washes them carefully, methodically, severs limbs into easily managed parts and keeps them in an industrial freezer until he’s ready to give them up to the cops. Rudy is quick, efficient, doesn’t dick around if he doesn’t have to, isn’t into foreplay.

Dexter loves blood. He loves smelling it, takes a sample from everyone he’s killed and keeps it on slides in a mahogany box, numbered from first to last. He loves touching it, runs his hand through the buckets that Rudy uses, wants to feel through the latex if he could, but Rudy tells him about diseases, tells him about sickness, about death. He isn’t disorganized, but he’s messy, lets blood fill the room as he works, lets himself enjoy the screams, uses chainsaws and feels power as they rumble in his hands.

They take turns killing, but always go together, standing aside while the other does the job. Rudy chooses prostitutes, run-down women with fake tits and addictions, brunettes and redheads and bleach blondes, and he doesn’t rape them, but he runs his fingers over Dexter afterwards, rips open clothes with his teeth and doesn’t let himself breathe until he’s had that release.

Dexter likes criminals. Usually men. Tells himself that he’s doing the right thing, tells himself that the world doesn’t need these kinds of people around. And Rudy laughs, always, says, “Again, Dexter?”

Says, “Can’t you just let go once?”

His smirk, “Just once?”

Rudy laughs at him, but loves the dark look in Dexter’s eyes when he’s finished, covered in latex and blood, saran wrap, loves the way Dexter’s voice drops an octave, the way his face feels rough against Rudy’s chest, Rudy’s thighs. He laughs, but finds himself screaming later, begging for Dexter’s mouth, Dexter’s hands, loves the feel of skin on his, says, “Like this, Dex.”

Says, “Just like this.”

The papers call them the Ice Truck Killer and Bay Harbor Butcher, respectively. They find out about Rudy because he just doesn’t care, lays out frozen corpses tied with red ribbons, laughs at them, laughs at the cops, the general public, wants to send a forty-three page manuscript to Miami Metro explaining why he does what he does, that need that he has, that fucking drive, but doesn’t only because Dexter begs him not to, because Dexter doesn’t want this to end yet.

They find out about Dexter because some stupid fucking diver uncovers his stash. Dexter watches this on TV, sits shock still, wonders when he’ll hear the sound of choppers above his apartment, wonders when the FBI will show up at his door, but Rudy rolls his eyes and says, “Don’t even worry.” Squeezes himself besides Dexter with a bowl of popcorn and chews loudly, points when the news camera catches a glimpse of a waterlogged body, bloated blue skin, laughs as one cop vomits off to the side.

Rudy says, “You’re careful.”

Says, “You’re beyond careful.” And, “They won’t even suspect you.”

The papers call them both monsters, killers, vigilantes, and this makes Rudy angry, angry at all those who can’t see the beauty in this, the perfect manipulation of bodies, the ability to just let go of inhibition and morale and every idea taught since childhood, but words have never hurt Dexter, so they’re mostly okay with being exposed.

They celebrate after every kill, sometimes with blood still on their hands, dried and flaky and rust colored, and they drink and fuck and Rudy laughs at everyone they pass, tells Dexter that if that girl were a little taller, he might have to kill her. If that girl had bigger breasts, well, she’d be a goner.

Laughs and throws his arms open and says, “We own this now.”

All those children who taunt each other in playgrounds, screaming about the Bay Harbor Butcher. All those prostitutes that won’t get in to dark colored cars, even when the money’s right, choosing cold nights over the possibility of finding the Ice Truck Killer. Rudy laughs and laughs and says, “We own everyone.”

Dexter’s dark eyes and the way he smells blood before a kill, smells it on his hands, tastes it in his mouth, Rudy’s perfect smile, his tight grip as he pulls Dexter’s lips down to meet his, sharp teeth and wet tongue, well, Rudy’s laughing and Dexter finally feels like this is right, like this is what he’s been missing.

And Rudy’s whisper against Dexter’s jaw, Rudy says, “We’re free.”


End file.
